“Well, that is only fair”, answered Frankl; “that is only fair. But I have a carriage there, let us get into it, and sit as we talk”.
She could see no carriage in that dark, yet it stood only some yards away—Frankl's own.
“I think I prefer to stand...” said she.
“As you like. But with regard to the gun, I should have thought that you could have guessed how it was—but no, you always mistrust me instead—the Jew. Don't you know that the dead man was a servant in my house? Well, I left the two guns in my study, and he, wanting to shoot himself, stole one, that's all”.
“It was he shot himself?”
“Why, who else? You don't suppose Richard shot him! You are as cool as they make them”.
“Well, that was how it was! But couldn't you say that at the police-court—?”
“I am going to at the big trial, of course. But I was ill, am ill now, and here have I been running about all day on your brother's behalf, and dead tired—and ill, and all—and you won't let me have a rest in the carriage—”
“Well, as you put it in that way...” she said.
So they walked to a motor-brougham, sat within, and as they commenced to talk again, the brougham moved.